Story for the Day: Reis and Menor

Reis, the Frewyn God of Luck and Deliverance, is often found where she shouldn't be. She shouldn't be watching over any one at the keep, she shouldn't be loping about the Realm of the Gods, and she certainly should not be anywhere near Menor's home in the mountains.



At the southwestern end of the Menorian Mountains, which separated much of Frewyn from Gallei, on a jutting crag halfway up the range, a slender black cat loped toward a nearby cove, the entrance marked with a Roe Gaumhin on either side. The surrounding dawn redwoods were illuminated by a setting sun, the ocher bark tingeing the atmosphere with an amber haze, the chirruping of nesting larks filtering through the trees. The black cat mounted the stile to the cave and crept toward a depression in the rocks, where stalagmite fountained up from the ground. Clouds suddenly canopied the skies, billowing out in flocculent waves, the air cooled, the sky grew heavy in the hope of snow, and the static silence of a late winter storm prevailed.

                A horn blared out from the peaks above, caroming down the slopes and through the trees. Birds quitted their nests in a flurry, commands from the Brigade commander leading the patrol echoed, their footfalls carrying on the wind. The ground spoke in tremulous supplication, the atmosphere thrummed in an anxious thrill, a few flurries navigated the winding boughs.

                Menor exhaled, and the earth moved.

                The mountains groaned, their tectonic pedestal grinding against the Galleisian border, but a hand reached out and pressed down against the atmosphere, subduing a consciousness sheathed beneath the stone. The earth slipped into a momentary sloom, its sounds suppressed by the cries of a child emanating from the mouth of the cove. The cat followed the cries along the crag, it pattered toward the mouth of a cavern, and lying in the bowl of a large broken stalagmite, cocooned in linens and blankets, was an infant, hardly more than a few weeks old. It writhed and thrashed about, kicking its legs as though it hated being alive, its strangled cries caroming through the trees, and to silence it and soothe it into a gentle doze, the cat crept into the bowl, lay beside the child, and nestled her head against its cheek. A moment passed, the child quieted and seemed confused, its hand gripped and tugged the cat’s fur, and after a few nuzzles and gentle pats on the nose, the child tranquilized and began to giggle.

                It turned and gripped the cat’s ear.

                “She will put your ear in her mouth,” Menor’s voice droned.

                The cat purred and ignored the gums gnashing at her ear. “I am accustomed to it,” she implied. “You forget I have soothed many children.”

                The ground made a subliminal sigh. A fire flickered nearby, a small clay cauldron hung over it filipendulous from the stone awning above, and from the stone crag beneath, Menor appeared, rising out of the rock in a petrous wave. Fractal moss fanned over his head, light snow garnished his shoulders, his immense arms hanging heavily at his sides. A gravity and sullenness clung to his heels, pulling his ponderous step along the stone, and he stood at the entrance to the cove, perching over the fire, watching the milk in the clay cauldron warm.

                “The milk is for the child,” said Menor, eyeing the cat.

                The cat licked the infant’s head. “I never assumed otherwise. I would prefer milk to the taste of a child, but, as it is not to be shared…”

                She left it there, licked her paws, and continued her work on the infant’s head, painting its hair with her tongue.

                Menor waved his hand, and the milk stirred itself. “No one is asking you lick the child.”

                “No one is asking you to warm milk for the child, but you do it,” the cat rejoined, snurling and rubbing her ears. “The child must be cleaned. No one asked me to do it, but it must be done all the same.”

                The cat’s whiskers browsed the infant’s face, and the infant cooed in delight.

                “Do as you will,” said Menor, in a mindful hue. Moss arched over his brow. “Your benevolence will not gain you any milk.”

                The cat gave him a flat look. “I am not always a cat, Menor.”

                “No, but you are not here to bless the child either.”

                A conscious look was exchanged, a silence followed, and the cat relented a little.

                “The child does not need my blessing,” said she, her muzzle curling into a semblance of a smile. “The child already has yours.”

                Menor paused, and the mist surrounding his shoulders swirled. “Luck is always important for a child.”

                “But not necessary when a child has gained the favour of Diras’ Third Son.”

                The cat’s tail curled, and Menor, despite his inclination to be sullen and dour, secreted away a smile.